Dukkha
by Little Grey Kida
Summary: There will always be suffering in the world – everyone has their own demons. Hastings is afraid of the dark.
1. Prologue

Ever since I was a little boy, I had always had a certain fear of the dark. In the evenings, after I had been tucked in and a story had been read, I often begged Mother to leave the door open and a candle lit in the hall. Whenever she left after tucking me into bed, I used to creep out from beneath the duvet and re-open the curtains so that moonlight also streamed in, so that I would not have to face the night.

As I grew older and blossomed into an unruly teenager, my mother's tolerance of my fear grew more and more strained. She would tut as I lit the hall light before bed, and often before I was fully asleep, leaving me encased in claws of panic and knotted bedsheets. After such nights, I would arrive for breakfast in such a bedraggled state that I would eat then, after a severe scolding, go back upstairs and sleep through until afternoon tea.

It was worse during the war. There was no light to be had in the trenches, no torch permissible to be lit after dark, no match or cigarette to be alight in case the enemy used it as a target. Often during the long nights I barely slept, often ending up tangled in bedsheets in my terror. Every sound that rang through the night only added to my feeling of being trapped and unable to escape. Often, I begged for the night watch so that I would avoid remaining in the cold, dark, stuffy alcoves that the other men slept in.

I could handle being outside in the dark though, during the night. It was different to being entombed in a cramped dugout. The stars blinked, the heavens glittered, the horizon was ablaze with majestic red and gold light as the sun hid beneath the clawed foothills of the horizon. This was a darkness he could face. It was not all encompassing blackness, it was not a suffocating void, it was a darkness filled with glittering light and long shadows. Starlight lit the land ahead, the snow-dusted ground was still visible, the black sky did not collapse upon me. It was as if the starlight was some scaffold that held the dark blanket above the world.

But soon I left the army, and the days of cramped sleeping quarters and ringing ears were left behind me. I began working as a secretary for an MP, gained enough money to buy myself a small flat in the city, and began to get my life back on track. The work was a regular 9 to 5 job, with some paperwork to finish at home. Due to the availability of electric lights that I did not have when I was younger, I could now keep a small desk light on throughout the night without the fear that it would burn down the flat. I did not get much pay, only enough to get by on and then some to buy a luxury or two, but it was better than what I had previously.

Of course, this was before I bumped into my old friend, Poirot. We had met when I had once gone on holiday in Bruxelles as a young man. I had gotten lost on my way back to my hotel, and feared I would never find it once the sun had gone down, but I had quite literally crashed into him as he did his rounds. We spoke as he led me back to the hotel, and then made plans to meet again and again as my holiday wore on. By the end of the two weeks I was staying in Bruxelles, we had become quite firm friends.

However, this time I had bumped into him as on my lunch break. I had recently earned myself a raise in my pay, and decided to treat myself to tea and a sandwich in one of the higher end cafes who's drinks I had always fancied myself to enjoy on a regular basis if I had enough money. Poirot had already been in the cafe when I had arrived, talking to a dark woman with with luscious black hair. My breath caught in my throat as I saw him, and I found myself smiling despite myself. Poirot briefly turned away from his companion as if to scour the cafe. I caught his eye and grinned widely. His eyes widened comically in surprise, before he too was smiling. He raised a hand in greeting, before turning back to the woman in front of him, talking quietly. She smiled, nodded once, before rising from her seat and leaving. Poirot gestured for me to sit down with my lunch.

We spoke of much that day. We had not seen each other for several years, bar a brief meeting as I recovered from an injury in Styles, although we had sent many letters to each other, and were still very dear friends. We spoke of our lives since we had last seen each other, him of his detective work, and me of my secretarial role and what happened in the brief interlude where I had been at war. When the dregs of tea were stone cold at the bottom of the teapot, and I had little time to return to my post, Poirot promised we would meet again.

And we did. We met up for more tea and coffee some days. Others, we sat in the park for hours on end, watching the world pass us by. But it was only a matter of time before Poirot found out about my situation. Upon hearing of my flat and how little I was paid for my work, Poirot insisted I stayed with him. He would look after me, he said. I meant to start refusing, but I found my mouth moving of it's own accord and agreeing to move in with him, at least for the short term.

I had feared that by moving into his flat, I would have to tell him of my fear of darkness. I did not wish to waste his electricity by keeping a lamp on during the night, and I was loathe to explain to him why I slept throughout the day when I didn't have it on. However, I got lucky. In Poirot's flat, I slept in a room with a window facing the street. There was a lamppost stood directly opposite, and its amber glow lulled me into a sense of security as I drifted off into Morpheus' embrace. Poirot had offered to install black curtains to hide the light coming from the lamppost, but I had refused – partially because I didn't want him to fuss, but mainly because I knew I could not sleep without it.

Time ticked on from that fateful day, and now it had been seven years since I moved in. Poirot had not yet discovered my fear. Had I my own way, he would've never found out at all, and I would've gone to the grave with my secret. But this was life, and I rarely had my own way with life. The events that led up to and followed him discovering my secret were of the life-changing type. Even if he had not discovered my fear, my life would've never been the same.

The date was November 16th, 1927.

The place, a small hotel on the Pembrokeshire coast.

The main event... well, that was dependant on your point of view.


	2. Days of Summer, Night of Storms

It began with a suggestion. It had been a trying few weeks - the case Poirot had taken on was frustratingly slow paced, and I could see my friend was getting agitated about the lack of progress. He grew short tempered, and replied in sharp, monosyllabic answers whenever I asked him anything. It was wearing on my nerves, and I often found myself walking out in frustration after he had answered one too many questions with a Gallic sound that meant absolutely nothing to me.

"Do you think he's any closer to finding an answer?" Ms Lemon asked me one day, as I took shelter in her office after a particularly bad afternoon. Poirot has spent most of the morning building card houses, and now focused his entire attention upon the finished model. I was sorely tempted to knock it down in a childish display of annoyance, but I had my reputation to uphold, and instead removed myself from the situation.

"I jolly well hope he is," I replied. "I'm not sure how more of his temper I can face."

Ms Lemon hummed sympathetically. "You know what I think you and Mr Poirot need? A holiday. Somewhere abroad, perhaps. A break from this maddening case."

"I wish. But you know how much Poirot dislikes travelling. It would be hard to convince him to go anywhere that you can't get to by train or by car."

Ms Lemon frowned in thought, tapping her finger against her lips, before a bright smile appeared on her face, and she looked earnestly into my face. "I know just the place, Captain," she said. There's a small inn I know of - very quiet, very cosy - on the Welsh coast. Absolutely stunning scenery, very relaxing. Wonderful golf course too. I'm sure Mr Poirot and yourself would enjoy the trip tremendously if you went."

The idea sounded exceptionally tempting. I had always had a soft spot for the coast, and took annual trips to Brighton to experience the pleasures that only the sea air could bring. But I also knew that Poirot wasn't a keen traveller, and I wasn't sure how he would take several hours in a train.

"I shall ask him. Ms Lemon, but I can't make any promises."

Ms Lemon opened her mouth as if to speak again, but at that moment, Poirot entered the room. I tensed a little, expecting a sharp request for information from Ms Lemon, or the writing of some telegram he needed to send. But Poirot did not do either of those things. Instead, he smiled genially at both of us.

"Mes amis, I have neglected you most terribly. But the case, I have solved it."

I smiled in relief. Finally.

* * *

In the celebratory aftermath of the case, it was ridiculously easy to convince him to come with me to the coast. Ms Lemon had us booked into the inn, and by the end of the week we were riding the train through the high peaks and the low valleys of the Welsh countryside.

Poirot was far more talkative now he hadn't a case on his mind, and we spoke of many topics as the train rattled on into the afternoon. We paused briefly to take lunch as we switched trains, and then it was onto a steam train to the coast. I watched the hills and valleys smooth out into rolling fields, stared as the blue sky of the horizon split in half to reveal the glittering waves of the ocean, followed the gulls that flew over the train with my eyes.

We arrived in the train station at around 6 o' clock. It wasn't too far to walk to the inn; Ms Lemon had provided us with a map to follow, and within five minutes we were stood at the inn door. It was a sweet place - neat, well-kept, with a slate roof and whitewashed stone walls that fitted in with the scenery perfectly. A short woman of about five foot was stacking some sandbags at the door of the inn, and as we approached, she looked up and gave us a wave.

"Oh, you must be Captain Hastings and Mr Poirot!" she exclaimed as soon as we got near enough to have a proper conversation. "Very nice to meet you both. I'm Rhiannon, the innkeeper here."

"Enchante." Poirot murmured, taking her hand and nodding at her. She smiled, then turned to shake my hand. I found she had a very firm grip for someone who was so diminuative in stature.

She took us up to our room, which happened to be two small bedrooms joined by a bathroom and a sitting room, which in turn lead out to a small balcony, enclosed on three sides by wall and sheltered by part of the roof above. It was very cozy, and I found myself liking it almost immediately.

There was no time to examine the rooms in any great detail, however - Rhiannon had already made supper, and I was ravenous. Poirot wanted to spend some time unpacking however, so I descended the stairs by myself. As my feet hit the last few steps, I heard raised voices, speaking in a tongue that I did not recognise. I paused on a step and listened closely.

"Bachan, ble mae'r canwyllau gofynnais am?" I recognised Rhiannon's voice, and she sounded a little stressed.

"Yn yr bocs ar ben yr bocsys eraill, Mam," A male voice replied to her. I could not discern anything from the voice, except that it was very heavily accented. "Dwi jyst 'di deud. Draw fanco."

"Dyw hi ddim, Pryderi! Dwi wedi chwilio yn fana."

"Wel, nid ydwyf i gyda nhw- o, un funud."

"Beth? Beth?!" There was a pause, then the man spoke again, sounding a little embarassed.

"Mae gen i nhw."

"O, Pryderi..." There was laughter from the rooms in front of me, and I felt now to be a good time to reveal my presence. I walked down the rest of the stairs and peered into the lobby. My steps on the stairs must have been heard, for the next thing I knew, Rhiannon was in front of me.

"Aha, Captain Hastings. Supper is almost done, I'll just get it now-"

"Who you talkin' to, Mam? New visitors?" I heard the man speak before I saw him. He stepped out into the lobby, and I saw him as a tall man, with strong shoulders and chin-length brown hair.

"Aye, boy." Rhiannon replied. "Captain Hastings, this is my son Pryderi. Bachan, hyn 'di Capten Hastings."

Pryderi shook my hand with a strong grip, then stepped back a little and studied me appraisingly. "You look like a rider, Cap'n. Do you do any 'orse riding, sir?"

"Now and again, yes. How did you know that?"

"You have a quite a firm, stiff handshake. Most riders do cause they have to grip the reins in a certain way when riding."

"I say, that was very clever of you."

"Thanks. Y'know, we have a few horses here. Keep 'em in a stables just up the road."

"Oh yes?"

"Yeah. If you want to take one out for a ride, just ask me and I'll tack one up for you. In fact, I'm taking the 'orses out to get some laver to stock the pan'ry. You can ride with me, if you want."

I had no idea what laver was, but the thought of riding was very appealing. "That's very kind of you - I'd like that. Do you go riding often?"

"Everyday. Mam taught me 'ow to ride when I were little. She's crackin' on a horse, I'll tell you - fastest rider out here. Da couldn't keep up with her!"

Rhiannon blushed at his words, and swatted him on the shoulder. "Hush, boi." she said, smiling. "Mae swper ar yr bwrdd yn yr cegin - dewch a hi fyny, 'na hogan dda."Pryderi bounded out of the room, slipping past Poirot with practiced ease as the latter came down stairs.

"Ah, Mister Poirot! There you are! Come on through to the dining room - supper's coming now."

She lead us into a well lit room, decorated sparsely with colourful pottery and small frames of cross-stitch. In the corner there were several boxes, a few of which were opened and looked rifled through.

"Apologies for the slight disarray here, gentlemen." Rhiannon said, moving to the boxes in the corner and beginning to repack them. "Pryderi - my son, Mr Poirot, the man who passed you just now - and I've been searching out some old matches and candles. Bit difficult to find, but we've got to be prepared for what's coming our way."

"Coming our way?" I asked, nonplussed. "What's coming this way?"

Rhiannon paused in her tidying, and looked at me bemusedly. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"There's a storm coming our way. We gotta tie everything up for when it hits."

"A storm?"

"Aye - the weathermen only picked it up yesterday evening. It's supposed to hit us in a day or two. Here-" She handed Poirot a small box containing a matchbox and some candles. "-you might need these. We're not sure how well the power cables will last once it's made it's way through."

"Cables? Will it be dangerous, if they fall in the storm?"

"Oh no, at least not to us here. Don't worry too much, sir - we're used to this. As long as the gas cookers stay bright and the heating don't pack in, we'll be fine. We just may have a few candlelit evenings over the coming days."

* * *

The rest of the evening passed rather uneventfully. I hung around the dining hall after dinner and played a few games of cards with Pryderi, before turning in for the night. It was of some relief to me that the rooms were relatively small, and contained a bedside lamp that easily lit up the room, unlike some of the previous mansion estates I had previously stayed in that had huge gaping rooms in which the only source of light were weak, flickering candles.

After a restful night, I joined Pryderi for an early breakfast in the kitchen. Poirot hadn't yet woken, but I doubted he would want to get his feet damp so I left him be. We saddled up the horses and headed out to the shoreline, saddles gleaming in the early morning sunlight. It was a two mile trek, but as we rode, Pryderi pointed out points of interest such as the ruins that sat near the cathedral, an island that seemed to be covered in birds, and a set of rapids that were a favourite among paddlers, though I guessed by the shrapnel of boat littering the rocks that the rapids had quickly fallen out of favour with some.

At last we hit the shoreline. We dismounted our horses and trekked by foot along the waterline in search of the elusive item of laver Rhiannon had asked for. It wasn't long before we found some - laver turned out to be a pretty mauve water plant that clung to the rocks in the sea. Rolling up our trousers and tying the horses, we waded out to the rocks. Pryderi began to collect the plant whilst I watched, trying not to let my feet sink into the sand we stood on.

"How many times a week do you do this?" I asked, after a few minutes of companionable silence.

"A week?" he replied. "Not many. I usually go out 'bout twice a month - one time to get stuff for market, and another to stock up on."

"The market? You can sell this? Who to?"

"I can't tell you who I sell it to, 'cause I don't know. Couple o' housewives want it for cooking, some holiday makers want t' try something new... I sell it to all sorts." He sawed hard at a piece of stubborn laver, and I left him to it, instead letting my gaze wander back to the beach.

I could see Miss Lemon had recommended here. The coast was truly stunning in a way London was not. Yes, London was impressive with its imposing buildings and polished walkways, but this was something different. In London, you didn't have the danger that seemed to prevail in the countryside. Yes, there were always men who could shoot you or hit you with a car, but they were human errors, less powerful dangers, not the danger of here.

Here, the dangers were more apparent, much bigger. You could be pulled under by the vast currents of the sea, the cliff could crumble underneath your feet or over your head, a gust of wind could push you over the edge. These weren't human, these weren't man made. This was a powerful, uncontrollable force. You couldn't yell at the sea to stop, to let go, like you could yell to a man.

London was beautiful in the way that a person is physically beautiful - eye-catching, larger than life, a fantastical creation. But it was only temporary - a pretty face could be ruined in matter of seconds. This place was beautiful in the way a sharp mind was. Now, I may be the last to admit that many the women I chased after were only physically beautiful, but I could admit it, and yet I could still appreciate the attractiveness of a sharp mind. A sharp mind knew things you didn't, a sharp mind had hidden secrets that maybe you could never find out. A sharp mind held attention. You were reeled in by the attractiveness of what you didn't know about it. And it was so very difficult to change a mind - it took months and years rather than seconds.

I pondered on what could be if there were ever an amalgamation of London beauty and the beauty of here. A combination of pretty face and smart mind. The city equivalent of elegant words and soft hair, of sharp tongue and polished shoes, of skilled reasoning and cat-like eyes...

That sounded like someone familiar...

"I can tell you something though," Pryderi said rather suddenly. I blinked in confusion, momentarily forgetting I was stood knee deep in water, gathering laver. "That storm's going t'come tonight."

"Oh yes?" I remarked distractedly, wondering what on earth those last thoughts had been about. "How do you know?"

"You can see the storm coming from 'ere - see? On the 'orizon." I looked out to the sea. Although the sky above us was blue and bright, I could just see dark grey clouds lingering on the horizon. The sea out there was a miserable grey compared to the summer turquoise of the water that lapped at my knees. It was a strange sight, and I remarked as such. Pryderi chuckled.

"That's what all the city boys say when they first see it. Couple o' 'em think it's us Welsh cursing the weather, but I don't think we're that good at tha' kind o' trickery." Pryderi waggled his fingers jokingly at the horizon, and I laughed at his antics. He grinned at me, and went to turn back to a particularly stubborn patch of laver. He got half-way before his head suddenly snapped around, and he squinted up at the top of the cliffside.

"Hey who's that up there?" he asked suspiciously. I looked up at the cliffside. At first I didn't see anything, but a sudden movement caught my eye, and I managed to glimpse what seemed to be a sinewy brown-haired boy jump from a tree and land on the path below. He looked down at us for a brief moment, before turning on his heel and marching away.

I turned back to Pryderi, and was surprised to see a sour look upon his face. He made a rude gesture at the cliff, before turning back to the laver and began hacking it with a sudden violence.

"Not a friend of yours, I take it?" I asked. Pryderi paused in his hacking of the laver, and looked up at me, frowning.

"Nah, that's one of Don's lot. I told him to stay off these parts - he's got 'is own laver he can get elsewhere. Bunch o' troublemakers, all o' Don's lot, I swear to God."

"How so?"

"Bunch of thieves. Ara got into a big fight with that 'un you saw just now, 'cause his brother nicked one of Ara's newborn pups. And also..." He looked around furtively, before coming closer and lowering his voice. "You didn't 'ear this from me, but they have a lot of kids hanging around that place they own, and yet no-one here's seen anyone but family enter that place."

"I say." "I murmured, a little disgusted by what was implied. "You don't mean..."

"Maybe. Just an observation, aye?" Collecting up the cut laver, he turned and headed back to the horses. In a more business like tone, he called back to me; "Come on, we've got enough here. Let's get it back to Mam."

With one last look at the cliff, I followed him.

* * *

We rode back in silence. It seemed as if we were riding much harder on the way back than on the way there, and as a result we reached the inn a little before lunch. Whilst Pryderi tethered the horses in the stables, I entered the inn. Rhiannon descended on me almost immediately, armed with a towel and a cup of tea. Soon enough, I was bundled up and sent to sit by the window to dry off and await lunch.

"How was your trip, Hastings?" Poirot asked as I sat down. He was settled in an armchair next to a bookcase, a foot or two away from my chair, a small book in his hand. I smiled at him, stretching out on the seat nearest the window so that the sun hit my legs.

"Oh, it was a great sport, Poirot. A great ride there, cantered through some beautiful places, and the beach was stunning. You should come with us next time, Poirot - it's very pretty."

"Ah, thank you but non, mon ami - the horses and I do not mix. I find it far better to stay here."

I shrugged his refusal off - I didn't really expect him to say yes. "So what have you been doing this morning while we were gone?"

"Reading, mostly. It is unusual that I have time to sit down and finish a book, and so I enjoy when I can. Madame Rhiannon has suggested I read this one." He showed me book cover, and I leant forward to read the title - Yr Mabinogi and Other Short Stories; An English Translation.

"The title means nothing to me, Poirot," I said, leaning back into the seat. "But it seems you're enjoying it."

"It is quite interesting, yes."

"Which book is this?" Pryderi asked, wandering into the room. He carried a crate with him, which I guessed was holding the laver we had collected earlier.

"Y Mabinogi, Pryderi." Rhiannon told him, carrying a plate of fruit cake and sandwiches. "I suggested Mr Poirot read them. Aha, that's the laver, I take it?"

"Ynddi. Got quite a bit of it too."

'That's good. Hopefully we've got enough to last us out. We'll end up like Cantref Gwaelod if we're not careful. Cer rho 'na yn yr pantri, ia? Wedyn dewch nol am cin'o."

"Cantref Gwaelod?" I asked, as Pryderi bounded out of the room, laver thrown over one shoulder. "What's that?"

"It was a city, once upon a time." Rhiannon replied, coming towards us with the plae and setting it on a table beside us. "Built on the lowlands a couple of miles from here. Got drowned out. I think the story's in that book you've been reading, Mister Poirot."

"Oui, I have just started to read it. Would you like me to read it to you?"

"If you would." I settled back into the cushions as Poirot started to read, taking a sandwich from the plate Rhiannon set on the table. Poirot's voice was mesmerising, and soon enough I lost track of the story and simply listened to his voice wash over me, occasionally taking a bite to eat at random intervals, but mostly listening quietly.

I must've dozed off during the reading, for the next thing I knew I was opening my eyes to see the room bathed in the soft glow of an electric light. The window I was sat by was cool to touch, and I could hear rain pattering against it. There was the sound of the soft turning of pages, which indicated that I was not alone.

I looked over to the bookcase, and saw that Poirot was still sat there. He was not reading aloud as he was earlier, but was instead quietly focused on the page. He was so absorbed in his task that he did not know I was awake. I watched him quietly, taking in every detail of his person. The broad hands, gripping the book with possessive tenderness, the emerald eyes, half lidded in rapt attention to the book, the strong jawline, the lips...

Wait.

I shook my head, getting rid of any remnants of tiredness that clouded my head.

What am I thinking?

"Ca va, Hastings?" Poirot had evidently noticed I was awake, and was gazing at me fondly. "Did you have a good nap?"

"Lovely, Poirot," I said distractedly, trying to make sense of my previous thoughts. But I couldn't focus inwards and untangle the mixed messages I was getting from my head with the object of my thoughts in the same room. It was distracting. I had to get out of here so I could sort out my head.

"I think I may turn in early, Poirot. I'm still a bit tired." I said, stretching out and rising from the window-seat. In fact, I wasn't really that tired at all - my body ached from this morning's activities, but my head was on high alert. Poirot, however, seemed not to notice this, and nodded, murmuring good night as he turned back to his book.

As soon as I reached my room, I shut the door, and began changing into my pyjamas. I didn't really want to sleep, but I needed to do something to distract my hands and let me think properly.

I had admired my friend. I had looked at him like I would look at a pretty woman. Was it the remnants of sleep that confused me? Or did I have deeper feelings for my friend?

What did this mean?

I threw myself into bed with a huff. No, I told myself. I could not, should not, will not have deeper feelings for him. I did not see my friend in that light. I was not one ofthose men. I did not feel for men as I should do for women. I was a respectable gentleman. And yet...

I shut my eyes determinedly and resolved not to think about it. Despite not wanting to sleep, I still managed to doze off amidst thoughts of books and broad hands.

* * *

Perhaps it was the state of mind that I went to bed in, or perhaps from napping on the window seat earlier, but this night I slept uneasily. For the most part, I could fall back asleep, but at one point during the night, a huge bang that jolted me awake. Or at least, I thought it did - for when I opened my eyes, I could see nothing but darkness. I shook my head, blinked my eyes, rubbed my face, and yet the darkness prevailed. My breath started to quicken, my skin burnt feverishly, my chest felt ice cold even though my heart beat rapidly beneath it. The dark seemed to be closing in on me as I started to panic, trying to untangle myself from the sweaty mess that my sheets were slowly becoming.

I freed my hands from the sheets as another bang rumbled from outside. I turned to where I hoped the bedside cabinet was and fumbled for the light switch, hands shaking like a leaf. I flicked it a few times hoping the light turned on, but I was out of luck - there was no light to comfort me now.

I swung my legs out of bed and stumbled into the lounge area. It was lighter here - the curtains had not been pulled, and the moon, despite being covered in cloud, still lit the room slightly. I felt my heart rate slow a little, but this light wasn't enough - the iciness still gripped me tightly, and I still felt the adrenaline and panic flooding my system. I walked towards the balcony door, opened it, and stepped outside.

The first thing I noticed as I stepped outside was that the salty tang of the sea was far stronger than it was yesterday. I lent on the banister and looked out to the coast, feeling the spray of salty rain against my face. The cool spray of rain on my warm face helped calm the panic that had bubbled beneath my skin, and I took several deep breaths, trying to control my erratic breathing.

The storm must've hit, I thought to myself, rubbing my face tiredly. Another bang rang out, and now I was stood outside, I could see what caused it - the slight breeze that was present earlier was now a savage gale, and the bins that sat outside were being blown around in the wind, their metal case hitting walls, causing hollow bangsto reverberate each time it was lifted by the wind and thrown back to the ground. I noticed a man on the ground below, fighting the storm, trying to get home, no doubt. I mentally wished him luck - in these conditions, he needed it.

The scenery I had admired on the beach had transformed into a frightening blitz of howling winds and icy rain. And yet, cocooned in this little alcove, it was I was watching this all through a sheet of looking-glass. It was like staring into the eyes of of a man who experienced emotions in extremities, and yet kept composure even in the most trying of circumstances...

"Hastings?"

I started rather violently, not expecting anyone to come out here to speak to me. I looked around. Poirot was stood by the door, a candle in one hand and a book in the other. He was frowning at me, and it only just hit me then how odd I must look, stood on the balcony in ruffled pyjamas. Instead of trying to explain myself, I gave Poirot a wan smile.

"Hullo Poirot."

"What are you doing out here? It is cold."

"It's not cold. I just came out for a little air." My words weren't exactly true - it was getting very, very cold now I had . I shivered, but I tried to hide it as a stretch, hoping he would not notice.

Unfortunately, he did, and he frowned at me. His hand tightened a little on the door handle - a sure sign he was getting frustrated with me.

"Hastings, come inside. You'll catch the illness if you do not."

"I'm fine, Poirot, really." I protested. I did not want to go back inside - not to the cloying darkness of that small room. Although, the light from Poirot's candle did light up the living area, and it did look rather inviting... A brief flashback of knotted sheets and all-consuming terror squashed that desire right back where it came from. I was not going back inside until the power was back on.

It seemed Poirot had other ideas.

"Hastings. It is dark. It is wet. It is late. You are cold- do not try to deny this Hastings, je ne suis pas aveugle - and you look completely exhausted. Why do you not come inside?"

"I'm fine out here." I replied, a little frustration leaking into my voice. Could I not have one moment of peace? "You go back inside, Poirot. I'll come back in when I'm ready."

"I-"

"Poirot, I am not two. I can take care of myself."

Poirot opened his mouth again as if to argue, but shut it again as he saw my face harden with determination. He turned back to the lounge, walked in, and shut the door behind him with a precise snap. I watched the candle he held bob about the living room for a while, before vanishing as Poirot made his way into his own bedroom.

I turned back around and stared at the stormy sea, trying to soothe my frayed nerves and jittering heart.


	3. Repressed Relevations

At some point during the night, I must've braved the dark and returned indoors, for when I woke up the following day, I was curled up on the settee, head resting on the arm. A blanket had been draped neatly over my immobile form, far neater than I would've expected myself in last night's state to put it on. I stretched out, noting every twinge and ache that had developed during my stay on the settee. There were several, and combined with yesterday's horse riding injuries and the little sleep that I had gotten, I felt like an absolute wreck.

I sat up slowly, back creaking as I straightened it, and looked out the window. The sky was overcast and murky. Rain still fell from the heavens, but it wasn't the stormy madness of last night. It was only showers and drizzles, and sometimes the sun chose to peek dimly between breaks in the clouds. I looked at my watch. It was a little past 11 in the morning. Far too late to be sleeping. I picked myself up from the settee and headed into the bathroom.

If I had thought I was a wreck before I had gotten up, it was nothing compared to the vision that stared back from the mirror. My hair stood on end in thick tufts, and running my fingers through it was akin to running through quagmire. Dark rings encircled my eyes, the musky blue contrasting with the redness of my eyes, and my lips were dry and cracked. I fumbled with the cup by the sink for a glass of water.

The cold water stung my throat as I drank, shocking my head out of the sleepy morning fog that it had inhabited. Why did it always affect me so? I was sure no other grown man suffered as I did when the lights went out. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. Despite chasing criminals, despite facing down armed men, I was weak at heart. I could walk about in the world with my chin up and back straight, but one word of my fear and I would come crumbling down like a house of cards. What would people think if they knew? What about Japp, or Ms Lemon? What about Poirot? I was his brave, his soldat, his...

I slammed the cup on the counter, the remaining water sloshing over the cups rim. I was not going to think about him. I was not his anything. Last night was a lapse in judgement, an addled thought in a myriad of sleep fog. It meant nothing. The thoughts were the ramblings of a sleep deprived mind, the physical reactions nothing but mere oddities. This trembling of my hands was not one of fear at my feelings, but a reaction to the cold water that trickled from the cup. This ache in my heart was not a mourning of the lack of his love, but a symptom of some physical malady, perhaps indigestion.

The cup clattered to the floor as I pushed it aside, my hands coming to cover my face as I leant on the counter. Who was I fooling? I had never felt as strongly for anyone as I had felt for him. He was the anchor that kept me grounded whenever I flew upon a flight of fancy, he was the star that lead me home at night. We fought, we argued, we laughed, we played, we loved, and we were all the better for it. We were the closest of friends. Nothing more. I was not one of those men, I could not be.

I looked back at the mirror, staring critically at my reflection. Even if I did have deeper feelings for him, I knew it was not to be. I was a pathetic, weak man who could not face the dark. I was the cowardly fool who joined the forces and came back with less strength than I went in with. Who would want this excuse of a man? Why would Poirot, the epitome of class and respectability, want to involve himself with me, a dowdy man with an affinity for cars and putting his foot in things? It was still a criminal affair, relations between two men, so I doubted Poirot would want anything to do with that, even if he looked past my rather large failings. I had no chance.

I didn't realise I was crying until the drip of my tears became distinguishable from those of the tap. I wiped my eyes furiously, ashamed that I had let my emotions overcome me, but the tears did not stop falling. In the end I simply buried my head in my hands and wept silently, body trembling in the shroud of my misery.

* * *

I did not go downstairs until well past lunchtime. I suppose I would've stayed all day in the room if I had the choice, however there was no ignoring the hunger in my stomach and I felt I had to show my face to prove to Poirot I was fine and there was no need to ask me about last night, which I was sure he was curious about. He had been in his room when I had awoken, but had gone by the time I had left the bathroom. I hoped he had not heard me in the bathroom - I did not wish him to see me as pathetic as I saw myself.

He was not in the lobby when I went downstairs, and a quick scout around the dining room and kitchen showed that I seemed to be the only one in the house. I wondered briefly where everyone had gone, but I then noticed a platter of cold meats and bread on the table, with a note saying briefly that Poirot and Rhiannon had gone to the town. There was no mention of Pryderi. Feeling a little left out, I nibbled on some beef, wondering what to do with myself today.

As a result, I didn't need to decide what to do, as it was decided for me. As I tidied up after myself, I heard the stomp of boots on the front porch, and the squeak of door hinges as the front door opened and shut behind the visitor. I called out to see who it was.

"Just me, Capt'n!" It was Pryderi. He poked his head around the kitchen door, where I was washing up, and gave a little wave.

"Where have you been, Pryderi?" I asked, stacking the platter on the draining board.

"Out and about, really. Helpin' the neighbours with fixin' things after the storm. Only came back to change shoes - think these boots have seen the end of their days." He walked further in to the room, and I saw what he meant - his wellington boots were wet, and the soles were almost falling from the base of his foot.

"I say," I replied, wincing at the damage. "I hope you have another pair."

"Aye, I have several. Round here, it's a bad idea to have less than three pairs. I have six, I think."

"Six? That's more shoes than I own!"

Pryderi laughed, and I grinned back. As he trudged off to the boot room to change shoes, I finished tidying, smiling softly all the while. Despite my melancholy earlier, Pryderi had managed to put a smile on my face. From what little I knew of him, he was that kind of person - someone who always managed to make someone smile. Just as I hung the dishcloth up on the rack, he came bounding back from the boot room with a mischievous smile on his face.

"Capt'n, what are you doing this afternoon?"

"I'm not sure," I replied. "I haven't decided yet."

"Good." Pryderi grinned. He lifted a pair of spare boots and shook them enticingly. "Come out with me Capt'n, I've got something t' show you."

I toyed with the idea of refusing - it looked very wet outside, and I still ached from yesterday - but his grin was too inviting to ignore, and soon I found myself pulling on the boots he threw my way, and following him out of the front door. We went out on the horses again, riding nearly bareback save for soft saddle pads - the wet undersides of the horses would've caused the leather straps of the ordinary saddles to chafe.

Instead of trotting to the coast like last time, we went further inland, onto higher ground. The scenery around us warped and changed as we climbed higher and higher. After an hour's hard riding, the road flattened out, and soon we were cantering through rolling hills and farmland, leaping over low fences and scattering flocks of sheep, Pryderi laughing and suggesting routes through the landscape. I felt like a far younger man, cantering at such a speed as this, with the wind rushing through my hair. It was exhilarating, and I soon forgot all my aches and my troubles. Every once in awhile, Pryderi would look back at me, as if to check I was keeping up, and I suppose my excitement showed plain on my face, for he grinned happily back at me and continued to push the horses to go faster.

We slowed as we reached a precipice of some kind. The horses were left tied to a fence near some grass. Pryderi leapt the fence with confidence, but I began to have my doubts about going anywhere near the edge. It looked quite precarious, and the ground around it seems to drop off into nowhere.

"Don't worry, Capt'n, it's perfectly safe." Pryderi called from the precipice. He gave a small jump to prove that it was solid. "Come and see the view."

Slowly, I clambered over the fence and joined him. We walked towards the edge, but the tendrils of fear returned quite suddenly as we got closer, and I clutched at Pryderi's elbow instinctively. Silently, Pryderi lay a soothing hand on my vice like grip, and walked a little more cautiously. Slowly, we reached the edge, and at Pryderi's whispered request, I looked down.

Below us, the hills sloped downwards to form a deep valley, at the bottom of which ran a furious river of floodwater, sparkling as if thousands of small candles lay upon its rough surface. The water threw itself at the rocks that stuck out of the water, swirled around the shallow patches and rushed through the deeper spaces. It was beautiful. Some fish could be seen fighting the flood, but they did not seem to be getting far - most seemed to spend most of their time leaping out of the water than actually swimming. I mentioned this to Pryderi, and he laughed.

"Aye, they're not the sharpest tool in the block." he smiled. "This valley is normally dry, but after heavy storms the river at the top breaks banks, and the water an' fish come into the valley."

"What happens to the fish once the water dries out?"

"They kinda sit there. There's no way out of this valley, it's a dead end. There's a man who lives at the top of this valley- you see that lodge up there?" He pointed to the distance, and I could vaguely see a thin plume of smoke rising from a shadowy block on the horizon.

"I can see it, just about."

"Aye. That's the old man's place. Calls himself Taliesin. When the flood water goes shallow, he comes out with his waders and his horse and picks up all the fish. He scrubs them up nice, then sells them to the fishmongers up the road. "

"I say, that's clever of him. How did he get the idea?"

"No clue. Probably got sick of the rotting fish that turned up after every storm, and wanted rid of them."

I hummed a non-commital response, and looked back out at the landscape. We stood out there for a good hour, and spent a pleasurable amount of time exchanging small talk and wandering about the hills. When our feet began to ache from walking, we remounted the horses, and headed back down the hill towards the town.

"I was surprised we did not see many people up there admiring the view," I remarked a little while later. We had reached half-way down the hill, and the road was growing steeper and more sheltered with trees. "Do many people know of the place?"

"I don't think so, no." Pryderi replied, ducking sideways to avoid a low hanging branch. "I know of it, and Mam knows of it, and of course Taliesin does, but I don't think many other people do."

"That's a shame. More people should visit there."

"Aye. It's a special place. Mam has always said so. She says I should show it to Cigfa, but..."

"Cigfa?" I asked, confused. "Who's she?"

"Girl in the town. Mam wants me to marry her."

I could hear the distaste dripping from his voice as he talked, and I asked lightly; "Not your cup of tea, is she?"

"She's a lovely girl, but no. Not my kind of person."

I looked at him sharply. The way he said the last line, it was as if he was not talking about this girl, but about girls in general. Was he... ?

"I think I'll pop in to see Taliesin." We had reached a fork in the road, and Pryderi had slowed his horse to a stop. I followed suit.

"Aye. Mam told me not to speak to him, cause he's got nothing to do with us, but I rather like him, and I want to make sure he's ok after the storm..." He dithered on the spot, looking this way and that, before making up his mind up and taking the left fork.

"I'm heading up there," he told me over his shoulder. "You head back to the inn. You know the way back?"

"Yes, I do." I replied. "What shall I tell Rhiannon?"

"Tell her..." He thought for a while. "Tell Mam I've gone riding up by the ruins. There isn't anyone up there she can use to prove I was there."

"Alright." We parted ways, Pryderi taking the left fork, and I the right fork. It seemed to take an age to ride back now that Pryderi was not here to fill the space with small talk. Instead, my thoughts had began to wander into territories that it had no place to wander to, mainly of Pryderi's inclination, and my own personal problems. I forced them to the back of my mind whenever they appeared - I had to focus on getting back to the inn.

I had almost arrived back when I passed by the boy I saw on the cliffside yesterday morning. He was whittling away at a piece of wood as I approached, but I was surprised to hear him address me as I passed.

"Been up the mountain with that Pryderi, aye?

I stopped and turned to face him. He wasn't looking at me - he was looking at his palms, where he was turning the wood in his hand over and over.

"I might have. I don't see why it's any business of yours."

He laughed, a bitter harsh sound that rang between my ears. "Nah, it's none of my business what you do with your time. You staying in Morgens Inn? Rhiannon's place?"

"Yes," I replied cautiously.

"You watch out for her, you understand. Manipulative woman, she is."

"Steady on!" I cried. "Rhiannon is a lovely woman!"

"She looks it, aye, but she's got a steel mind under that bonnet of hers. Her boy, Pryderi - real mummy's boy, though not willingly, Rhiannon's got her thumb down on his head, hard."

"I don't believe that's true. Pryderi's his own man, he makes his own choices-"

"One word from his mother, and he'll stop choosing. For now, at least. You watch yourself around her, sir."

"Right." I didn't believe what he said, but his words unsettled me. I turned the horse back to the main road and started riding away.

"You may not believe me, sir," the boy called after me as I furthered the distance between us. "But mark my words, one day Pryderi's going to stop listening, and I swear she will do anything in her power to bring him back under thumb. Head will roll, sir, and if you're not careful it's going to be yours."

* * *

"Did you enjoy your ride, Hastings?"

I was back at the inn. Rhiannon had greeted me immediately as I walked through the door, asking about where I had been, and where Pryderi was. I fobbed off her questions with practiced answers - we had ridden up the mountain, and Pryderi had gone for a ride around the ruins. She seemed pacified with those answers, and so I ascended quickly to my room, where I found Poirot waiting for me. He was stood outside on the balcony - exactly where I was last night, I noted nervously - and did not seem to notice my presence until I was within touching distance.

"It was very enjoyable. We went right on top of the mountain - you could see for miles, and..." I prattled on about our ride for a while, and although I could see Poirot was nodding politely, his mind was elsewhere. I asked him about his trip to town, but he did not seem to be particularly talkative on the matter. I soon excused myself from his company to change for dinner, and he allowed me to go without fuss. Within moments of me leaving, I could see he had turned back to staring out into the distance.

I changed slowly, feeling a little trepidation. With the pleasure I had with Pryderi this afternoon, I had almost completely forgotten the terror of last night, and the events of this morning. It seems that Poirot had not forgotten, and was probably using that great head of his to figure out my behaviour. I hoped he hadn't gotten far - although my revelation this morning had proved how much I cared for him and trusted him, I was not ready for a full out confrontation.

Pulling off the wellington boots, my mind returned to a question that had been plaguing me since returning. I wondered if Pryderi was actually... homosexual. The way he had said the girl was not "his kind of person" was telling, however was I looking too far into things? Why was I even considering this? I was not... that way inclined. I didn't even know my own stance on the subject. But still, I was curious. He seemed perfectly respectable - a manual labourer who helped his mother run her business. There was nothing effeminate about him. And yet...

I sighed, and pulled on my normal shoes. I was sure he could have any woman he wanted. He was a handsome man, I had notice his strapping figure as soon as I had met him. He seemed kind, although his emotions seemed unpredictable. Had I been that way inclined, I would ask him for dinner. But he chose not to indulge. And I was not that way inclined.

Wasn't I?

A flurry of memories flew through my head - admiring Poirot, grasping Pryderi's arm on the mountain, the fleeting romances with women that ended through lack of interest on my part - but I squashed them down immediately. I didn't need to have conflicting thoughts on my sexuality at this moment in time. I needed my wits about me if Poirot had figured anything out. What little wits I had, that is. I may not be able to outwit Poirot, but if he had figured anything out, I had to have enough of them to escape the situation.

With that thought in mind, I straightened my shirt, and went back into the entrance room.


	4. On Hiatus

Hey all~

Just to let you all know this story is on hiatus until I have more free time to dedicate to it. Right now, I'm teaching myself two knew languages, an instrument and a whole new course, so along with uni and student finance applications, I am unable to update this fic right now.

I may post a few oneshots in The Coffee Arc series I have, but otherwise consider me on hiatus.

Sorry for those who wanted to see more writing from me!

Kisses,

Mama Kida


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